


Antephialtic

by deathwailart



Series: Rhiannon Amell [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>antephialtic<br/>(n) something that protects against nightmares</p>
<p>Duncan knows his Calling is getting closer as he travels to Ostagar and his new recruit suggests a popular Circle method for getting rid of nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antephialtic

Maker he's getting old with all these nightmares plaguing him where the Archdemon whispers with the song of the Taint buzzing right through his teeth and bones. He's not long for this world; should he survive what is to come he will go to the Deep Roads (with Riordan, as it should be) but there's still a duty to gather more support. He'd hardly expected the situation in Kinloch Hold but he's glad it could be salvaged – he needed more Mages and here he has one bound not to the army but to the Wardens. She's a bright girl – young woman really but he's feeling old and there's a strange innocence about her out here in the world, seemingly amazed by the size and tipping her head back, tongue out, eyes closed, to catch rain. There aren't rules about fraternising with one another what with Wardens being Wardens, answerable only to himself but she's his charge and a recruit and he shouldn't be following the line of her throat when she swallows. Time is running out though, she could be the last person he touches and even though he's weary, there's something about her that makes him feel alive. Her questions should be annoying, in fact, he really suspects that they should boggle the mind but he remembers Fiona and any other Circle Mage allowed to join the ranks and understands as much as he can; she's finally seeing the world for the first time since a child and it must seem smaller and larger all at once.  
  
He's been tossing and turning since he lay down, listening to Rhiannon humming something under her breath, not a tune that he recognises and it makes him wonder if they have music beyond the Chant in the Circle or if they make their own. So much he doesn't know and perhaps he only has until they get to Ostagar. He rolls over and sighs, trying to get some sleep before it's his turn to sit by the fire but he last perhaps an hour at best before the nightmares have him jerking awake – Rhiannon must know that something is wrong but she hasn't asked beyond quiet enquiries and for that he's grateful. Very grateful. In the end though, he has to admit defeat, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes with the intent of relieving Rhiannon so that one of them gets some rest. She needs it more than he does.  
  
"Can't sleep?" She asks lightly when he joins her by the small fire. Truly, they could get away without taking watch but he feels more comfortable if they sleep in shifts, Rhiannon taking the first shift and a shorter one at that. The young woman deserves her rest without having to listen to his fitful shifting from nightmares.  
  
"The Blight is a constant worry," he admits – which is true, it's a very real threat and he's explained more to her on their travels.  
  
"Nightmares," she says and he finds himself nodding. No shame in admitting nightmares and she'll hardly guess the truth – he's about to face down a great evil and he still has to perform the Joining for her and the other recruits already on the road to Ostagar. There's a knowing look on her face and he rubs his hands before the flames to warm them.  
  
"I suppose you know a great deal of nightmares," he murmurs and she nods, looking older and wiser than she does with so much of what they have encountered. Parts of her are far older than her years, taught control, no doubt taught shame too, a life of being told of all the awful things magic is responsible for. She doesn't say anything in response and instead bites her lip and gives him a sideways look, as though considering.  
  
"Do you know what we did to help ease the nightmares or forget them?" She asks and he shakes his head, feeling a smile tug at the corners of his mouth until she's suddenly close, aiming for a smirk but there's something too gentle about it.  
  
"What?" He asks and for the love of Andraste he damn well _knows_ what she's implying from her closeness, from the look on her face but he's exhausted and bright and warm, very much alive and (if she survives the Joining) the future.  
  
"Did something far more enjoyable so that we'd forget all about the Fade or demons or whatever fear there was," she explains and from the sounds of it, she's been given and has given this explanation before, more than once, matter-of-fact but teasing. It reminds him of himself, when his duties aren't wearing on him so heavily.  
  
"And what might that be?"  
  
Instead of answering with words, she simply closes the distance between them (what little remains anyway) and presses her lips to his, breaking away when he tries to deepen it.  
  
"Forward, aren't you?"  
  
She smirks, bringing a hand up to cup his jaw, her fingers running through his beard. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."  
  
"Perhaps a dangerous statement for a Mage."  
  
"When we're taught restraint in almost everything we do, we need some outlets before we go mad and start climbing the walls."  
  
"I'm sure the Templars would have hated that."  
  
He catches a quick mumble that sounds a lot like _you'd be surprised_ but he can't question because she's leaning in again and this time she doesn't pull back with a coy look, instead gripping his arms, nipping at his lower lip and soothing it with her tongue as he runs his fingers through her hair, using it to direct her movements until she pulls back to breathe, eyes wide and dark, only a thin ring of blue at the edges of her pupils.  
  
"I know just the thing," she says, leading him away from the fire and closer to where the bedroll – only one, neither of them will sleep at the same time apart from when they find a tavern – is spread out, over to a tree that she pushes him against with as much force as she can. He staggers back more from laughing and being caught up in the moment; a slight young Mage is nothing in terms of physical strength compared to a grown man who's spent years fighting and training but he's happy to let her dictate this. He'd have to be a fool not to know what she's planning and it's what she wants to do and he won't argue. She sinks to her knees gracefully – practice perhaps, there are always rumours about what Mages get up to and now's really not the time to ponder why the stories crop up – and plucks at the laces of his trousers, tugging them down along with his smallclothes until they're out of the way enough for her liking. "I'm more used to skirts," she mutters and he laughs, petting her hair. He's already half-hard and her leaning close, her warmth breath and the glimpse of her pink tongue when it darts out to wet her lips. Her palm is soft around him, another reminder that she belonged to an artificial world, a way of life shielded from the outside, warm in the chill of the night as she moves, twisting her wrist, thumbing the slit to gather pre-come to ease the way. He lets his head fall back as she shuffles on her knees, getting comfortable before he looks down when her lips wraps around him and he ends up looking down, her eyes on his and the moan is dragged out of him. He doesn't know if he can watch but equally, he has very little desire to look away.  
  
His hands slide into her long dark hair, trying not to thrust too hard – it's been a while, there's been much to do and she's young but he remembers a younger him, an angrier him with a girl in that very tower she belonged to and he chokes when she takes him deeper, bright eyes flashing as she looks up again. She draws back, hand following until it's just the head in her mouth, tonguing at the slit, and he uses the grip he has on her hair to move her. She moans in the back of her throat, vibrations that go straight to his cock until they get a rhythm going and he has to close his eyes, listening to all the wet sucking slurping sounds, her huffs through her nose, his own harsh panting. Everything else is still quiet, no Darkspawn here. Yet. He pushes the thought aside because he's close and he should warn her.  
  
"Rhiannon," he cautions, "I'm-"  
  
She pulls back all the way, smirking. It looks obscene with how wet her lips are. "It's fine." Her voice is huskier and he's not going to argue, not when her head bobs down again. It takes only moments, her cheeks hollowed, the flat of her tongue on the underside and he grabs her hair tighter without realising, his knees shaking as he squeezes his eyes shut, just about managing not to shout. She swallows and barely chokes – very little outside of academics for young Mages, he realises and soon sinks to his knees as she licks her lips (red and swollen), hair mussed and cheeks pink. He reaches for her, kissing her, tasting himself in her mouth. Rhiannon ends up in his lap and his hand drifts up her thigh beneath the robe she's still wearing, cupping her and she draws back with a moan to grind against him – warm and wet, damp cotton under his fingers and he traces a path, smiling when she can't decide what she wants to do – press into it or pull away to undress.  
  
"So you weren't entirely altruistic then," he teases and she growls, dropping her head to his neck where she bites down just enough for a little burst of pain to flare, tongue soothing.  
  
"I'm not blind Duncan, you're an attractive man and I like this," she gestures clumsily and then gasps when his thumb presses hard against her clit, squirming, "I like sex, I love it, I feel alive and-"  
  
"Free," Duncan finishes and she nods, getting a hand around the back of his neck to pull him into another kiss, sloppy as she gasps and writhes and he's chuckling before he takes pity on her and hauls them both up, catching her when her legs wobble. She ends up with her with her back to the tree where he was, holding her robes out of the way, smallclothes around her ankles. Duncan palms himself as he leans in, urging her thighs apart and it doesn't go unnoticed. "Haven't you heard the tales of Warden stamina?" He asks.  
  
She bites her lip, clutches her robes tighter. "There were awful novels, I wasn't sure how much to believe." She's not looking at him but at his hands as he runs them slowly up her legs, stroking the juncture between hip and thigh, swearing when he takes his time. He prefers a bed for this, plenty of time, likes to draw this out, teasing or going at it until his jaw aches and his face and beard are soaked but right now isn't the time, not when she's arching her hips towards him. His tongue flicks at her clit and he slides two fingers into her, making her moan and tremble against him before he traces small circles, fingers curling, her rocking down and against them. It's easy enough to match the rhythm of his fingers with his mouth: a hint of teeth and licks, moving to suck gently until she's whining, one of her hands gripping his hair, fingers scratching his scalp – not enough to hurt and it makes him hum in the back of her throat, prompting her to jerk forward.  
  
"F-fuck, Duncan," she pants and he pulls back to look up at her, slowing his hand down too, " _p_ _lease_ ," she begs and he leans forward again, sliding his fingers out to a cry of protest before it's his tongue replacing them, fingers pressing against her clit instead, high breathy noises escaping her with little insistent thrusts of her hips. When she grips his hair tighter, his pulls away again, fingers back in her cunt and sucks at her clit and it she moans brokenly, shuddering and he lets her ride it out and by the time she's got her breath back, he's licking his fingers clean, his cock hard again.  
  
"Can't feel m'legs," she slurs and he helps her over to the bedroll where they finally undress, her cursing her robes. "S'easier in the tower, don't actually have beds, have to wedge y'self in a cupboard."  
  
"Remind me to tell you about the first enchanter's quarters," he says and she raises an eyebrow, "before Irving, he was still an Orlesian. A story for tomorrow."  
  
"I'll hold you to that."  
  
Rhiannon has to get up on her knees to get her robes off all the way and instead of lying back down, she straddles him with a smile, her skin pale from all those years indoors, the fire casting a glow on her features. Her body language is confident – the set of her shoulders, the straight back, the tilt of her chin and her knees on either side of him but she looks unsure of herself and he smiles encouragingly.  
  
"There's something I wanted to try." She manages to sound sure enough, clear and there's no stuttering or stumbling over it, "something I read and someone else told me about but the bed issue..." she trails off and settles herself, tossing her head so her long hair is out of the way. He's content for her to arrange him the way she wants – if there's arranging to be done – and doesn't ask what it is she wants. He knows that sometimes there are things you have to figure out yourself even with a partner and she seems satisfied quickly enough – he's already come once, he's not in a rush, body heavy and sated even with arousal curling down his spine. Soon enough she's got one hand about the base of his cock, the other curled around his hip to brace herself. "Can you," she begins, squeezing his hip and giving him a lock, "just help balance me?" He's only too happy to comply because once she's up and steady, she's sliding against him, rocking her hips along his length, the head of his cock rubbing against her clit. He could come like this, he thinks, her quiet moans and the slide of her folds against him and before long she comes, a rush of wetness.  
  
"Rhiannon?" He asks as he holds her up, her body limp, eyes glazed and after a few minutes she comes back to herself.  
  
"Always wanted to try that," she murmurs and he smiles, leaning up to kiss her, just a quick brush of lips before she's moving back and hissing as she sinks down on his cock, body still tight and clenching from her orgasm. He might have patience and stamina but Maker's breath he's no saint and he thrusts the rest of the way until she's flush against him, breath hitching on a sob.  
  
"Are you-" she nods before he finishes, smiling and he sets the pace, hard and fast, one hand on her hip, the other going between her legs to her clit, swollen and – if her desperate cry is anything to go by – far too sensitive to be touched. She's grinding down against him now, hands playing with her breasts, rolling and pinching the nipples and he's sure she's using magic, perhaps ice and heat pools in his belly – he's had encounters with Mages using ice before and he certainly enjoyed it. If this happens again (although he senses it'll be when, they don't have much further to go and if she wants to do this again, he'll be more than happy to join in and he damn well hopes this happens all the way to Ostagar) he'll ask her to try a few tricks with him.  
  
When she comes, she seems surprised, her hips jerking but he keeps his rhythm until she loses her balance then pulls out to roll them over, her on her back. It's easy enough to get her to wrap her legs around his waist, driving deeper with the change in angle as she moans and when he comes he lets his head drop to her shoulder, a ragged gasp all the sound he makes, easing her legs down when he can. She's boneless but smiling and she laughs when he lies down next to her for a moment, just getting his breath back, both of them flushed although he knows that soon enough they'll feel the cold once the sweat cools on their skin. He needs to clean up but it takes him a while to summon the willpower to do it, cursing a blue streak and her laughter follows him and it's cruel but he rings out excess water from the cloth on her stomach, laughing when she yelps and jerks upright. He lets her clean up first (his beard is dripping wet from where he braced himself and splashed cold river water liberally) then takes the cloth from her as she wriggles back into her robes before reaching for her pack, fumbling in a side pocket for a tiny bottle that she uncaps, takes a swig from and grimaces.  
  
"Preventative measure," she says airily to his questioning eyebrow, still making a face as she shoves it away. "Sort of habit to just...have them to hand."  
  
He doesn't tell her that there's little to no risk with him, especially not this close to his Calling but it's one of the things he can't tell her, secrecy as a necessity so he draws her closer and lets her fall asleep with her head on his shoulder. He doesn't sleep, the nightmares prickling at his mind but when Rhiannon wakes, he feels rested, telling her stories of his early years as they travel and when they stop for food and a break, she leans over to kiss him slowly, he looks forward to the nights ahead.


End file.
